


Signal

by Mafief



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 09:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13455093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mafief/pseuds/Mafief
Summary: Before tonight, the hand signal Holmes had just given Watson had never been employed outside of their Baker Street rooms.





	Signal

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’ed by the talented and awesome [Okapi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi%20). You helped polish this work and reminded me to put in very important commas. This wouldn’t be nearly as good if it wasn’t for you. Thank you! :)
> 
> That said, all remaining mistakes are my own.

Snow, whipped up by the wind, was weaving itself into the cracks in my armour of bundled clothing as Sherlock Holmes and I journeyed back home to Baker Street. I glanced at Holmes who was equally bundled and pressed against my side. I reached over and placed my gloved hand on his lower thigh. He looked at me and, even though I could not see his entire expression due to the blue scarf covering his face, I knew there was a smirk there from the look in his eyes. This ride back to Baker Street was agony, but agony laced with the best kind of anticipation. 

Against my better judgement, for I sought to calm myself, not enflame my condition, I remembered what brought me to this state — a simple touch. Holmes and I had begun to explore the more carnal nature of our relationship after he returned to me. Months later, he made a habit of touching my hand with his and run his pointer finger against the sensitive flesh between my index finger and thumb before engaging in more active appreciation of my body. This simple light touch signalled the promise of something more and each time the promise was kept. I knew what Holmes wanted from his expression, and his signal confirmed it. Yet, this seemingly innocent touch was never performed outside the safe haven of our rooms in Baker Street. 

Holmes had acquired tickets to a concert featuring a violinist of some noteworthy skill. The evening of the concert, after making my own preparations, I had come down the stairs working on a cufflink when I saw him bent over the dining table scribbling out a last-minute telegram. The sight of him caused my breath to catch. He was wearing his newest opera attire perfectly fitted to his slim frame. His tailor must be blessed by God, or perhaps he sold his soul to the devil, for Holmes looked impossibly elegant. He looked up and smiled and let his gaze wander over my attire as I approached him. My clothes were not as fine as Holmes’, but he was no less appreciative. His grooming was impeccable, and I fought the urge to run my hands through his hair. We shared a look, and both understood what it meant: yes, but later. 

We dined, and Holmes discussed at length the accomplishments of the violinist we would see later. I drank in the sight of him and the very good wine accompanying our dinner. 

Concealed in the darkness during the latter half of the concert, his hand had found mine. He touched my hand and lightly traced the sensitive flesh between my index finger and thumb. I hid my shudder at the touch, but the sensation ignited my nerves and muddled my focus for the remainder of the concert. Those fingers, that signal, stoked the want, the glowing embers of earlier. I was a tortured soul, trapped in the societal strings of a proper English gentleman, that desperately wanted to escape the disapproving eyes of those around and seek refuge in our world behind locked doors. 

The hansom lurched as it hit a rough patch and my mental drifting was abruptly stopped. Out of the corner of my eye, I looked at the orchestrator of my agonizing state and wondered if he was similarly affected. He was the one who designed this game of anticipation, of more, of desire, of lust. I, as in our professional life, was his partner and co-conspirator and willing to follow wherever he led. The thought of Holmes planning this exquisite torture of our wills only fuelled my impatience and I felt the pooling heat in my gut. I squeezed his thigh, and he turned his head towards me. He gave me a look, and I blushed. He knew exactly what state I was in. We continued the rest of our snail’s paced journey through the cold in silence.

Holmes paid the driver as I fumbled for the key with numb fingers. We stumbled through the door and I could feel his eyes on me as we climbed the seventeen steps. Seventeen steps and one door before we were safely hidden away. We carefully removed our great coats and hung them on the pegs in the hall, all the while the tension built filling the minimal space between us and causing me to forget how to breathe. The warmth of our sitting rooms was a welcome embrace, and I had other ideas of how to rid us of the evening’s chill.

Holmes turned to lock the door. The click sounded as loud as gunfire and I, with the burst of energy at the beginning of a race, made my move. 

Pinning him up against the door, I pressed my lips against his. I could feel him smiling under my kiss and I pressed more firmly in response. Holmes caught my meaning and kissed back. I explored the area along his jaw with my mouth, and he obliged me. The coolness of his skin and the beginning of stubble under my lips were a welcome sensation. His breath caught when my cold nose met the warm skin of his neck. My nose burned from the temperature difference as I nuzzled behind his ear. His distinct aroma combined with the scents of our rooms wrapped me in a comforting sensation of warmth and home. 

I leaned back to allow space between us, so I could lift his hand and give each digit its own appreciation with my mouth. His fingers were still cool from our journey and my mouth slowly warmed them up. He closed his eyes as he lifted his head and rested on the back of the door. 

I saved the location between his thumb and forefinger for last. Turning his palm upwards, I opened my mouth over the spot. On the corresponding spot on my body where he started this exquisite torture, I ran my tongue across it. 

Holmes slid further down the door and groaned. 

I repeated the action. 

“Watson,” Holmes said in a whisper. 

I chose to ignore it and continue my ministrations. 

“John.”

Reluctantly removing my mouth from his hand, I said with a tone of mock accusation, “You planned this.” 

“Not all of it. Your hand on my thigh during the cab ride was your idea.”

He smiled, more like smirked, and I moved to reclaim his mouth. I shifted my position and put thigh between his leg which allowed me greater freedom to press into him. My efforts were rewarded with a groan when I felt that his state was similar to mine. 

“Want you,” was what I said between heavy breaths into his neck. I was forgivably not at my most eloquent as I struggled to form coherent sentences. All sensations flooded south. I bit the side of his jaw. “I want you writhing, that mind of yours fully focused on me. Or no, I want it turned off, overwhelmed with sensation.” 

I felt him shiver. 

We exchanged looks of ‘need you,’ ‘now,’ and ‘bed,’ but we were both far too clothed. Holmes pushed me back and led me towards his bedroom. I slightly delayed his efforts with needy kisses, vaguely recalling the tinkling of glass when we bumped the wooden table that his chemistry experiments occupied. The gropes of his arse were necessary as it was still covered in those fine trousers. 

We tumbled through his door and somehow toed off our shoes while engaging in heated kisses. Holmes began working on his collar. I pulled his hands back and I murmured, “You will swear to me here and now that you will undress no further. I have been forced to watch you all evening in that outfit and I do intend to have my way with it.” Holmes stilled and let me divest him of his attire. 

Fingers slightly numb with cold and uncoordinated with lust fumbled with his cravat and collar. Again, I silently thanked his tailor as I removed the jacket and placed it on the chair. My jacket and waistcoat followed and so did his waistcoat. His shirt and vest were removed before I kissed the exposed shoulder and claimed it with a quick nip. 

My hands stroked his pale sides, up his chest, causing his breath to quicken. My prick stiffened at the sound. 

Holmes tried to return the favour, but I brushed away his hands. I escaped with my shirt on and I sat on the edge of his bed. Following my lead, he stood before me, his interest blatantly tenting in his trousers. I nuzzled his clothed hip and worked open his trousers, taking care not to touch his freed erection. 

Not yet, I had plans. 

I laid kisses on Holmes’ hip and up his chest, and as I stood my hands brushed a few hairs, some starting to turn grey, on his chest. I stood just far enough away to withhold the pressure and friction he desired. 

After turning us around, I nudged him towards the bed, and he fell backwards into it. 

Holmes propped himself up on his elbows and laughed. “You have me have disadvantaged in dress, my good man.”

I hummed in response and slowly removed my cuffs and collar. Holmes swallowed, and his eyes followed my movements as I unbuttoned my shirt and untucked the tails. The shirt joined our other discarded garments. 

“You’re not planning on showing any mercy, hmm?” he said. I stared down at his body, and he looked back at me unashamed. I let my eyes roam over his body. The light from the fireplace cast a warm glow over him, and a faint shadow fell on his belly from his cockstand. He was still as pale as ever but marked with more scars from his time away. 

“No, you did this to yourself. You made me wait.” 

My lover was not someone to let a statement like that slide. He began his attack. “Do you recall the last time I gave you that particular signal?” His voice was lower, and a sensation went straight to my groin. Of course, I knew, he knew that I knew, and that I could recount what we did with in detail. 

“I was supposed to remember details?” I feigned ignorance. 

“Your ability to remember conversations and details needed to spin a tale is superb, I have no doubt, but you do remember the speed at which you pounced on me—?“

I had closed the gap to the bed and bent over him. “—I believe you did the pouncing, that is, you tackled me to the floor and took me there on the bear skin rug.” 

I planted my arms on either side of him and my knees on the bed between his legs. 

His eyes grew mischievous. “John, you are missing the details. The slow sensation of how my hand moved across you.” He shifted and raised his hand up, then stroked it down my chest and brushed my nipple, which caused an undignified whimper to escape my throat. 

“Or how I kissed you and enjoyed the many uses of that tongue of yours?” Holmes looked me in the eye before snaking his arm around to my back and crushing my body to his. In a move that still puzzles, he flipped us, and on my back, I was looking up at him as he slid down my body and leaned in to kiss my belly. He stopped to lick my naval and the surrounding skin. 

“In summary, I am trying to convince you to remove your trousers, post-haste.”

My plan, whatever it was, foiled, I let him diveste me of my trousers and drawers. With all he put me through this evening, I was eager to have his skilled mouth on me. 

Those lips - that deliver deductions that never cease to amaze me, that show his mirth, that I can kiss with mine - were wrapped around my prick. His tongue swirled and teased across the head as I moaned and fought the desire to thrust into the wet heat of his mouth. He bobbed his head and brought his other hand to my work my shaft. I gripped his hair tight to tether myself as pleasure built. 

“Sherlock,” I breathed between moans. “I’m close. This is not how I want you.”

Holmes nodded and slowly slid his mouth to my tip. He lifted up slightly. I took in his dishevelled hair and his red swollen lips. 

“You look...” 

“Wrecked, debauched,” said Holmes into my skin as he slowly kissed his way up my torso and hovered just above my face.

“I was going to say ‘absolutely in need of a sod,’ but that may not be entirely correct choice of words.” 

“No, not entirely exact. Fuckable might be more exact.” There is something about vulgarity falling from his lips that fills me with heat. I rolled us over and reluctantly got out of bed to retrieve the pot on the makeup table before returning to Holmes. 

He laid on his back, and I kissed him hungrily. My moustache pressed into my upper lip when I slowly ran my lips down his side. He squirmed as I made my way down his neck. I knew he was sensitive on his sides and could be reduced to a writhing mess if I changed my touch into a tickle. As much as seeing him gasping for air while being tickled was a hidden pleasure of mine, I kept on task. I had more important matters to attend. 

I reached my destination and breathed in the odour trapped in the black curly hairs surrounding his prick. I slicked my finger before my mouth descended to his prick and my finger traced his entrance. He shifted his leg and gave me better access and my other hand held his hips still. I teased and slipped a finger in slowly breaching him causing him to give a muffled groan. I looked up to see his arm draped over his mouth. I pressed my finger in further and wait for the muscles to adjust to my presence before returned my mouth to his prick. I was surrounded - I in him, and he in my mouth – and it was perfect. 

As I worked him open with my fingers, he panted and writhed. I knew he was close to the edge. Slowly removing my mouth from his prick, I sat up and found the pot again. After slicking my prick, my hand lined up my prick to his entrance, and I slowly slid into the tight, wet heat of him. Buried deeply, I stopped, giving him time to adjust. 

He looked me in the eye. “For God’s sake, John, move.”

And so I did. His arm return to his mouth and muffled groans and sounds of ecstasy were directed towards my efforts. 

His breathing was ragged, and I knew he was moving ever closer to the edge. I reached between us and gave his prick a few pulls before he arched his back, his head thrown back, and came apart with a muffled shout. His internal muscles spasmed and pulled me closer to the edge. A few more thrusts and I called his name into his shoulder as I found my release. 

The last of my orgasm spasmed through me and I pulled out only to collapse partly on Holmes. We both laid there each other’s arms, and our breath slowed. He wiggled free and cleaned himself. Then he retrieved a flannel for me that he had dampened. I hissed in protest at the cold cloth. Washed, I laid down next to my lover, Sherlock Holmes. 

He sat up and lit a cigarette. Holmes handed it to me and I took a draw before handing it back. I settled on my side and slowly traced concentric circles on his chest. He smoked in silence, then flicked the cigarette into the grate. 

“I was thinking, given the success of our current signal, that perhaps additional signals would be appropriate.”

I stilled my hand and looked up at him. “Like what?”

“Well, for instance, this,” he stroked my ring finger with two of his fingers, “means I intend to bugger you into the mattress.” 

The thought of that made my already spent prick twitch. 

“While this,” he continued and lightly brushed his fingertips closed on the back of my hand, “this would mean that I have plans to take you in my mouth and have my way with you.”

I groaned. “Sherlock, you wicked man. The one we have works well enough. I like not knowing what to expect until the final moment, when you choose to reveal all mysteries to me or I choose to surprise you.”

He flushed slightly. “That is part of the appeal, but then we couldn’t have coded discussions about what awaits us when we get home.”

“True, but I could convey my intent with a glance.” He looked at me, one eyebrow raised, and I demonstrated my claim. 

We sealed our agreement with a heated kiss. 

“Good,” said Watson. “I like the one signal we have, and it would be acceptable if that one alone remained.”

And so, it did.


End file.
